


December When They Wed

by isabellahazard (cafemusain)



Category: The London Life (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, F/M, Wedding Fluff, Wedding Night, frankly a great deal of beginner's luck in the marriage bed, honestly though it's mostly candyfloss wedding nonsense, regional wedding traditions, with a serving of smut for dessert, world's longest wedding-breakfast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 19:12:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6919639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cafemusain/pseuds/isabellahazard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wedding of Miss Isabella Hazard Rosdew and Lieutenant-Colonel Robert Fitzgerald is celebrated with all due enthusiasm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	December When They Wed

Nobody of consequence, Bee had been told, got married out of Season. 

Well.

If consequence meant being away from one’s family, married from some grand church in London, then she was very happy to be of none. The pokey stone edifice in which she married Lieutenant-Colonel Robert James Fitzgerald had seen her ancestors birthed, churched, married and buried for centuries--more immediately, it had seen Bee herself fidget through Sunday services every week for all of her 19 years, barring illness. The clergyman overseeing the wedding-service had baptised her and her siblings, his nose as red as it had ever been; the Admiral’s wife dabbed at his tears with a handkerchief and a benevolent smile, and Julia Rosdew attended her sister at the altar with the utmost grace. Afterwards the wedding-party emerged into a delighted crowd gathered in the unlikely fine December sunshine, and all walked merrily to the assembly-rooms--the Rosdews’ house being deemed too small--for a cheery, if not exactly elegant, wedding-breakfast (if it could still be called breakfast, being served at midday).

It was all precisely as she had always expected her marriage to be… with the significant exception of the groom.

As a girl, she had never sighed over the handsome new blacksmith’s apprentice or the local squire’s roguish younger son. She had made no effort to imagine her wedding, other than practical prediction, and the man involved had always been a mystery. Her mother’s prerequisites were kindness and steady character, her father’s a good living, and her own… well, she could not see herself marrying someone who was not her friend. Other than that, she had always been open to suggestions, but never felt the desire to turn vague musings into reality.

The general consensus was, of course, that she would likely marry an officer known to her father, in the usual way of Naval families. His connection to the Admiral would be secured, and she would settle, near enough to visit, into the life to which she had been raised, with all its deprivations and its uncertainties.

So when the time came, nobody could have predicted he would be the son of an upcountry Earl and, perhaps more surprisingly, an Army man.

But then Rosdews, and particularly Bee, had never been known for meeting expectation.

A marriage by license, the promise of a large wedding-breakfast by the father of the bride, and no small measure of personal charm had seen the neighborhood grant Robbie Fitzgerald the legitimacy it had taken Susanna Billings a near-miraculous birth to secure. Toasts were warm and glowing and, in the case of the Admiral, somewhat weepy. The food was plentiful and the guests appropriately admiring of the handsome new couple, who sat in the seat of honor at a table liberally decorated with pine and blossoming gorse.

Her experiences in London notwithstanding, Bee decided it was perfect. As blessings had been granted by both sets of parents, the couple had seen no reason to wait: they would be married by mid-December and subsequently conveyed to Rotherham for Christmas, to better pay their respects to his family and introduce her as its newest member. As such, the last two weeks had been a whirlwind of preparations, hearty congratulations, and stolen kisses indulgently ignored by her parents.

The ceremony celebrated, the toasts drunk, the dinner eaten, it was now four in the afternoon, and there was only one thing left besides endless hours of drinking and dancing, humming about the back of her mind. She had never had much talent for waiting. To distract herself, as she could hardly kiss him in public, she leaned to take her new husband’s hand where it lay on top of the table, prompting him to turn and smile. “Everything to your satisfaction, Mrs Fitzgerald?”

It was not the first time he’d used her married name, but she thrilled to it again with a delighted smile. “Rather more miners than anticipated, but Father would share his joy.” A popular man from an old and popular family, Admiral Sir Edmund had been more than pleased to invite the highest-ranking officers of the local mine, and saw nothing odd in similarly extending his hospitality to the local squire, who was currently tucking into a great quantity of roast beef at the second seat of the high table. The resulting gathering had something more of the savor of a public assembly than a genteel wedding-breakfast, but she was an affable bride.

“He had casks of cider sent to the local pub,” Robbie informed her, “and I advised the addition of a barrel of rum.”

At his pleased expression she only raised her eyebrows and said, with no real distress, “they’ve already approved of you, you know, and if you make them like you any better, we’ll never be able to leave.” She was certain their health would be drunk several too many times over in the tiddleywink, and rather liked the idea. If it had been summer, she didn’t doubt she would have been expected to join in a reel on the village green; ‘quality’ or no, Bee Rosdew was one of the village’s own, and her wedding would be celebrated as such.

“Is it still considered bridal kidnap if one has already married the bride?”

“Ah, bu’ ‘ee mustn’t forge’,” she said with a frown, accent broadening, “ ‘ee ‘aven’t any kin ‘ereabouts to ‘elp with the snatchin’.” Her serious expression combined with the ridiculous burr must have been amusing, for he laughed and she cracked a smile, blushing for no reason at all and thinking that she would get to make him laugh for the rest of their lives. She had been considering kissing his cheek regardless of the company when someone called for the dancing and they were obliged to head up the line.

She was then similarly obliged to dance with her father, her brother, cousin Jory, and even a very inebriated Jos Williams before she had the chance to sit down. Robbie was given a similar reprieve: though he had no want of potential partners, Bee saw Julia sweep in and bat her eyelashes, dance one figure with her brother-in-law, and happily deposit him at the table. Bee suspected this was intentional--Julia was the only weddenar who had seen Robbie propose, and thus knew his leg might not hold longer if he did not have a break, and she was both clever and kind enough that Bee would not be surprised at her foresight. When the dancing finished, there would be a second, smaller meal, which they had been assured with some winking they were not expected to attend, but Bee remained steadfast.

“That’s when they  _ want _ us to leave,” was all she managed to say before Lady Susanna drew Robbie into conversation from his other side. She danced again when she had had something cool to drink, sat through yet more (and decidedly less coherent) toasts, and even ate a little bit of cold game pie before leaning to her husband and whispering that she would be in the coatroom, and that he should follow in no less than ten minutes, drawing as little attention as possible. With no further explanation, she headed downstairs and fetched their coats, donning her own and humming as she waited.

“Bee,” he said when he finally followed, “what on Earth--” But she only shoved his coat into his arms and grabbed his hand, pulling him out into the frosty evening, their merriment-warmed cheeks radiating into the air. Once outside she kissed him quite soundly, echoes of the music and candlelight spilling from the assembly rooms, the night thoroughly dark by this hour. When she pulled away he was smiling. “We might have at least stayed for the dancing.”

She shook her head, setting herself to helping him put on his coat. “We have to get to the inn--at the least, we can lock the door, and if we’re lucky, they won’t realize we’ve gone until after midnight.”

“Midnight? Should I check beneath your skirts for glass slippers?”

She turned to him with a faint blush at the mention of her skirts. “What?”

“Perrault, the fairy-tales--”

She waved her hand in frustration. “No, the pepper; we must hurry.” Despite clearly having no idea what his wife was talking about, he bore being pulled along to the inn with relative good humour, the chilled air doing both their heads some good.

It had been decided that, though the Rosdews had two perfectly serviceable houses, it would be strange to see the couple christen the new one, and stranger still for a wife to begin her married life in her childhood home. The inn was settled on as an appropriate middle-ground, from which they could more easily depart for Yorkshire the next morning. The innkeeper had become well-used to Robbie’s face but smirked when Bee preceded him.

“Avoided the pepper, then, Miss Bee? Or Mrs Fitzgerald, as it must be now,” he asked merrily, and she smiled in return.

“So far, so good. If you would be so kind--” He showed them their room, which had been thoughtfully also draped in gorse, including quite an impressive bough on the actual bed, which she began to explain was for good luck, being evergreen, when he closed the door and kissed her.

Ah, yes. It was her wedding night.

She couldn’t possibly have borne any more knowledge on the subject, between her mother’s advice for fortitude and Liz Trevelyan’s somewhat more illustrative explanations, but now that she was here, it all flew directly out of her head, along with the bustle of the past two weeks, and there was Robbie, Robbie, nothing but--

The door slammed open and she leapt back from him with a shriek.

“Give them pepper!” Announced one of the intruders, who she quickly realized were their wedding-guests, and she turned to her exceedingly confused new husband as they spilled in.

“I told you we were meant to lock the door!” With no further allowance for communication, the coats were pulled from their backs before they were merrily deposited on the bed fully-clothed with a great deal of shouting, at which point they were pelted with weighted stockings. When Robbie was hit first, the crowd gave a roar of delight, and even Bee had to laugh when he turned to her in confusion. “It’s for good luck; you were hit first, so superstition holds we’ll have a boy.”

In all the process didn’t last much longer, the revelers pleased to filter off to the party with their fondest well-wishes, stockings in hand. “You’d best be glad they didn’t pass the tiddleywink--we’d have been belted, then,” she said easily, and he looked at her as if she’d grown a second head.

“If ever you think I don’t love you,” he said, and she laughed, “please remember that I was  _ stoned _ on our wedding night and entertained no second thought.” He leaned to place a hand on her cheek, at which she bit her lip and looked down at her hands.

“You’d best go down and see if the innkeeper will give you a drink. I need to change.” After a pause, understanding dawned on his face, and he leaned over the bed, kissed the corner of her mouth, and obliged with a lingering glance, at which she blushed even redder.

Her trousseau had included a near-translucent scrap of muslin with frills that she blushed to even consider, which she quickly shoved to one side of the drawer where Lou had already placed them. Carefully she rifled through her night-rails; that one was practically Puritan for winter, that one too old, but she settled on a favorite, intended for summer but, she thought with another flush, it wasn’t as if she was likely to have it on for long. She laid it on the bed. Lou having been given the evening to enjoy the festivities, she sent for the inn’s girl, and unpinned her hair while she waited. The maid helped unbutton and put away her dress and stays, replacing her shift with the fine muslin gown. When they had finished and Bee was smoothing the front, the young woman’s hands moved to plait her hair.

“No--leave it.” Risking waking up looking like a dandelion, she left it to curl around her shoulders. The maid smiled knowingly and curtseyed. “Anything else, ma’am?”

At her direction, the maid left to retrieve her husband, leaving Bee to fasten the neckline with trembling fingers. Really, she oughtn’t be so nervous: it wasn’t as if he were a stranger, and it wasn’t as if she didn’t know, to a frankly inappropriate degree (thanks to Liz), what was going to happen. Shaking her head she fetched her shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders and quite resolutely stoking at the fire. With the same determination she went and splashed her face at the washstand and climbed into the bed.

A breath in, and a breath out.

Should she have the shawl on? Having pulled the counterpane over her lap, she looked down. There lay the reason she had chosen this particular nightgown: it framed that particular part of her anatomy well, rosy shadows at the height of the graceful curve, peeking from beneath just the barest touch of lace. The gauzy material made her look very nearly delicate.

Nearly.

With a huff she balled the shawl up and flung it at the door--just in time for it to hit Robbie in the face. She laughed through the hand that had flown to her mouth as he extricated himself from the soft blue wool. “Sorry!”

“I wasn’t aware I’d done anything to earn your ire so early in the marriage,” he said gamely, and tossed the shawl back to her so she could drape it around her shoulders again. With a gesture he revealed he’d brought a bottle with him--rum, if the color indicated. “Forgiven?” She grinned, nodding, and he went to pour her a glass. “No water, I’m afraid.”

“If I can survive what we stole out of Father’s study last week, I can survive whatever Mister Trengrouse keeps behind the counter. He likes me.”

“Most of them do,” he said with fondness, handing her the glass with a courtly nod. “Mrs Fitzgerald.”

She reached for it with a nod of her own. “Colonel Fitzgerald.” He turned to remove his boots by the fire, and she watched as she sipped on the rum, which was quite decent and burned pleasantly as it settled in her chest. His hair was starting to come loose from whatever they’d done to it, outlined golden against the glow of the coals, and she smiled when the boots were placed neatly beneath a table, his jacket and pelisse laid across it with care--a soldier indeed. He fetched his own glass and turned, looking at her with an expression she couldn’t read.

“You’re staring,” she finally said, for the sake of it, unsure where to look herself.

“I haven’t seen your hair down before.”

“Well you wouldn’t have, would you--hardly proper.”

“It’s very pretty.” He came to stand beside the bed, hesitant in a way that made her smile and forget she was nervous.

“Thank you. I grow it myself.” She patted the space next to her, generously ignoring when he rolled his eyes.

“Am I to expect pert remarks for the duration of our marriage?” Facetious disapproval aside, he climbed up beside her and atop the coverlet.

“All your days,” she said brightly, raising her glass.

“ _ Our _ days,” he corrected and smiled, raising his own, and she had to keep from grinning as she downed the rest of the rum. With a shake of her head and shoulders, she set the glass to the side. Incongruously, upon turning back, she noticed his feet. They were bare, and she bit back a smile; while not nearly as aesthetically pleasing as one’s hair, it was its own mark of intimacy, and perhaps even vulnerability. “A penny for them?”

“I was thinking I hadn’t seen your feet.” At the subsequent expression she laughed. “It’s silly. I just… I’d never seen them before.” And she had the distinct impression it would not be the only thing she hadn’t seen before tonight.

“I think them serviceable. By no means as lovely as your hair, and likely somewhat more… fragrant.” She had meant to respond, but he extended a hand to take a piece of hair between his thumb and index finger, softened in expression, leaned and rose to press a kiss to the side of her head. At this distance, or lack thereof, she could feel his breath against her ear through the cloud of hair, and a thrill buzzed through her.

The moment was interrupted by a shiver from Robbie that had nothing to do with the intimacy of playing with her hair and everything to do with its being December.

“Brr.” He sat up and pulled his shirt over his head, sending it the way Bee had originally sent her shawl. “It’s too cold for this - is there room in there for me?” He didn’t wait for a reply before pulling off his trousers as well and draping them over a chair before scrambling into the bed.

“ _ Robbie _ !” She had lifted her hands to cover her face by instinct, and was now peeking through her fingers.

He took them and chafed them in his own. “Surely you aren’t shocked, married woman like you.” Something like mischief was alight in his eyes, incongruously boyish in comparison to the very male figure he presented. She plucked her hands away when he drew them near his mouth, whether to warm them or kiss them she knew not.

“Yes, a venerable matron of half-a-day,” she said archly, settling her hands in her lap and fiddling with the fringe on her shawl, firmly ignoring the heat that had risen to her cheeks despite the cold. 

“Far too lovely to be a matron,” he said, and the tone in his voice surely sent her red as a sunburn, a flittering sensation warming through her chest when she turned to him. It was hardly the first time she’d been called lovely, not even the first time he had done so, but she was certain she had never been so glad to hear it.

Never let it be said that Bee Rosdew did not take what she wanted. “I think,” she said, turning to face him, voice even for all her nerves, “you had better kiss me before I fall asleep.”

“I think  _ you _ had better kiss  _ me _ before I freeze,” he responded easily, edging towards her.

Simple as that, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, one hand supporting her weight on the bed and the other tracing along his face, his neck, coming to rest on the outside of his shoulder. At last, the spell was broken and his hands were at her waist, warm through the muslin as he surged forward to respond in kind. Excepting their respective states of undress, this at least was not uncharted territory, for in the grand tradition of engaged persons, they had sought out every opportunity for feverish, impatient kisses, not all of them entirely chaste. 

Bee was unsure when, whether days or weeks or months before, she had begun to want him. An inclination or infatuation was one thing, but never before had she known what it was that drove men to madness and jealousy, women to ruin, to want someone so badly it must surely be plain on her face, to him and to others, must surely have rearranged the very fibres of her being to need his. That they had not sampled the marriage-bed before the marriage was more the result of a lack of time than any creditable control on their parts, so when his hands inched upwards to trace beneath her breasts, it seemed only a natural progression from days of kisses that left her itching and aching.

Her hand rose to cradle his jawline, smiling as she opened her mouth beneath his in instinctual desire to be ever closer, ever more entwined. The familiar push and pull took them both for several happy moments, lost to anything outside the circle of one another’s arms until she pulled away to breathe, taking his lip between her teeth for the barest moment as she did so. At some point, she realized without the welcome distraction of his mouth, one of his hands had moved to rest delicately on her breast as the other pressed at her supple waist. Judging by his expression, a tentative perusal was not at all satisfactory, and with a smile she reached to unfasten the cord at her neckline. With a grin she took his hand and pressed it to skin, gasping at both the novelty and his chilled fingers. No time wasted, she leaned forward to press kisses along his jaw, taking his earlobe in her teeth on a whim--a successful one, if his faltering hands and groan were any indication.

Not to be outdone, he shifted his mouth to her neck, paying lascivious tribute that had her biting her lip and failing to remain quiet. Whether she said his name or anything else she had no idea, the rushing in her ears keeping her quite deaf to anything but the rhythm of their two bodies. Her hands twined in his hair, keeping him close and urging him ever downward; he obliged her silent direction with an open mouth until her nightdress got in the way.

She would not admit that she keened when he pulled back. It was a perfectly polite nonverbal expression of displeasure, not in the slightest needy.

Upon the subsequent removal of the offending nightgown, she had expected he would resume his previous attentions, and was only prevented from voicing her disapproval by the way he leaned in to whisper something against her neck, reverent and soft, and she did not need to know the contents to feel the intent with a rush of affection. His hair tickled the sensitive skin of her torso as he worked his way down, and in her hazy delight she hardly noticed when he laid her back to grant his mouth and hands better access. In recompense for such pleasant attentions her hands scattered from neck to shoulders to head, her breathing heavy and thoughts thick as molasses as his tongue and teeth rasped across one aching breast, the other pulled to attention by gentle, unrelenting fingers.

Oh, she could well see why women ruined themselves, for surely this was some sort of heaven.

When she pulled his face up so she could kiss him again, the evidence of his arousal pressed against her hip much as she had been warned, but she had never thought it could feel so… soft. Heat bloomed through her core and she twined her legs with his, moaning gently against his mouth but caring little. There would be time enough to examine that part of his anatomy when she did not so desperately need him.

One of his hands was making its way up her thigh with alarming speed, goosebumps rampant despite the heat of the coverlet-cased world of their own making. Her cry of alarm when his thumb and fingers reached the apex of her thighs transitioned quickly into one of pleasure as he found what he had been seeking, swollen and wet in anticipation. Her body followed his like a magnet when he leaned back to adjust his position, legs opening in an instinctual invitation.

The kisses he pressed to her cheekbone were almost trembling, his breath ragged as he pressed against her entrance. “Bee--”

If he mean to ask her permission, he needn’t have; she curled her legs around his waist and braced her arms against his back, the decision made for him as he pressed homeward with a desperate cry. To his everlasting credit, he gave her time to adjust to the welcome invasion, stretching to accommodate him with less pain than she had been warned against.

With an urgent noise she pulled him closer, hands grasping at buttocks, hips, and shoulders, and finally,  _ finally _ he began to move. It was the delight of kissing on a grand scale, push and pull in endless wonderful varieties. Forehead pressed to hers, his tender kisses were an initial anchor amongst the tide of her mounting pleasure; perhaps unintentionally, she tilted her hips in a way that sent sparks shooting behind her eyes and heat washing through her veins. “Oh, again like that--” Her body arched against his, helpless against her own desire, wanton cries ignored as she met his every movement with one of her own, racing towards some unknown in the confidence that, if she fell, he would catch her.

Whatever unholy prayer she uttered at the point of crisis, she was blissfully unaware. She came apart beneath him, tension come to release and want to ecstasy in an endless moment of blinding pleasure. If the desperate snap of his hips and ensuing stillness, the bloom of heat within and his desperate cry against her skin were any indication, he followed her over in the aftermath, sinking into her arms heavy and sated. When her breath slowed she pressed a kiss to the top of his head, fingers twining absently in the dark curls, and all she could think was that she had come home.

Never mind she had left her childhood home a maiden and would nevermore return, never mind they were in an indifferent inn in a bed that was not their own. Wherever he was, she knew now she was home, pulled to him helplessly and happily. It would take the work of weeks to match the perfection of their initial consummation, the emotions more important than the somewhat-clumsy actions, finessed with time and delightful practice. For all its discoveries, even the rest of the night could hardly match the bone-deep happiness she’d found in his arms.

Ruined, she thought with a smile. A curious word, with power beyond the happy sanctions of matrimony, but the point held. Bee Fitzgerald was quite ruined for anyone else, and delighted to be so.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Sharpie, who wrote a solid few paragraphs when I was stuck on a transition!! I went with Explicit just to be safe; it's a lot of euphemism and nobody's seeing it other than y'all, but I'm still half-convinced the internet police are going to show up to take me to porn jail.


End file.
